


We made mad love, shadow love

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Punching out my dancelines [14]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (MY GOD THERE'S A TAG FOR THAT), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs in a Car, Coach/Athlete relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Present Tense, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a win, Celegorm runs hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We made mad love, shadow love

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Silje is entirely responsible for inciting this.  
> 1\. I've been wanting to write some Oromë/Celegorm from the early days, while Celegorm was still in school and the relationship was secret/illicit/(super hot). For reference, see [chapters 6-8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2106315/chapters/4647924) of DWMP.  
> 2\. This takes place the early fall of Celegorm's senior year; his and Oromë's affair has been going on since the beginning of the summer, and Oromë will break it off in another month or so. Celegorm is twenty one.

His teammates file out of the locker-room as Celegorm bends down to unlace his cleats, his blood still surging joyfully through his veins. A couple of them slap him on the back.

“Way to bring it, man!”

“Fuckin’ beast.”

He knows they’ll be heading to someone’s dorm to pregame and go out –  _to rage, bro, time to celebrate!_  – but just now, he has other things on his mind.

“Well played today, Tyelkormo.”

The owner of that deep voice, for example.

Celegorm straightens up, flashing a grin even as his heart speeds up and the blood sings in his ears.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“You should put some ice on that lip.”

Celegorm’s tongue flicks out, tasting blood. He shakes his head, still grinning. “It ain’t so bad. You want to take a closer look?”

There’s a tight exhale as Oromë looks over his shoulder, checking that the locker-room is empty. It is.

“Tyelko – ”

“Yeah?” Celegorm stands up and pulls off his jersey in one swift movement, dropping it carelessly to the bench. His smile widens as he sees Oromë’s gaze flicker over his bare chest, those amber eyes darkening. He recognizes the look for what it is – hunger. “You got something to say to me, Coach?”

“Don’t you want to join your teammates?” Oromë’s voice is as even as ever, but he’s taken a step closer, and Celegorm’s whole body crackles with anticipation.

Celegorm shrugs. “I’m in no hurry.”

“There’s a change of pace,” says Oromë, amusement tingeing his deep voice and Celegorm moves closer to him.

“I’ve got things I want to do first,” he says, and he watches Oromë’s chest rise and fall with the deep breath he takes. “We won. Haven’t I earned a celebration?”

“What did you have in mind?” asks Oromë, quietly, and Celegorm’s blood sings triumphantly because  _yes_ , Oromë is letting himself be tempted.

“I’ve got a couple of ideas,” says Celegorm, and now he’s so close that they can feel the heat of each other’s bodies, and Oromë reaches out, gently, to touch Celegorm’s split lip.

Celegorm parts his lips as Oromë runs a finger against the cut, his eyes intent on Celegorm’s face. “Reckless,” he says softly. “You get yourself hurt.”

“I like a little pain,” says Celegorm, and bites lightly at Oromë’s finger.

“Tyelko.” But Oromë doesn’t move his hand, and Celegorm sucks his finger into his mouth, running his tongue against the sensitive pad of Oromë’s fingertip. A low sigh, almost a moan, rumbles up from Oromë’s chest, and the sound, mixed with the wild joy of a victorious match, makes Celegorm almost insensible with desire. He sways forward, bringing himself hip to hip with Oromë, knowing his coach will be able to feet the hard length of him against his thigh.

“Oromë,” he breathes, and Oromë actually shudders at the sound of his name, his hand dropping from Celegorm’s mouth to cradle his jaw. “Oromë, I want – ”

“I know what you want,” says Oromë, tilting his face up, and Celegorm wants to close his eyes in anticipation, but he also doesn’t want to look away from Oromë’s face. He will never get over seeing such desire in his coach’s eyes,  _never_. Desire for  _him_. His blood runs hot again and he reaches up and winds his fingers into Oromë’s hair, pulling the braids from the careful knot Oromë wears them in at the back of his head.

He lifts his face to Oromë’s as he pulls him close, whispering, “Aren’t you going to reward me?”

“For what?” Oromë’s lips are nearly touching his now, and Celegorm fights the urge to sink his teeth into Oromë’s lower lip. It is always better when he makes Oromë come to  _him_.

“For winning the game,” says Celegorm, tugging lightly at Oromë’s hair for the response it elicits. “For being your star player, Coach.”

“What kind of reward did you have in mind?” Oromë’s large hands settle on Celegorm’s waist, and Celegorm tips his head back, exulting. He is so close now, so close to feeling those powerful hands lift him like he weighs nothing at all, to crush him against that broad chest, to part his legs and –

“The kind of reward we’d both enjoy,” he manages. “Like you ripping off my clothes and lifting me up against the wall and fucking me until I can’t walk straight…”

Oromë groans and Celegorm laughs. “Do it, Coach, you know you want to.”

“Not here,” says Oromë, but Celegorm can see how fragile his resolve is.

“Need some persuading?” Celegorm pulls back, dropping to his knees before Oromë and beginning to undo his belt. “I can do that – ”

“No,” says Oromë, though his voice is rough with need. “No, Tyelkormo, not here.” He pulls Celegorm up, taking his wrists gently and pulling Celegorm’s hands away from his groin.

Celegorm lets out a groan of frustration. He could  _feel_  Oromë through the constricting material of his pants, could feel the heat of him, the evidence of his desire hard under Celegorm’s hand, and he feels almost vicious in his frustration.

He settles for surging forward and kissing Oromë fiercely, and this time Oromë doesn’t resist, but slides his hands from Celegorm’s wrists to his biceps, holding him steady as their mouths meet. One of Oromë’s hands comes up to cup the back of his head, pulling him in to deepen the kiss, and Celegorm feels lightheaded with the joy of being  _wanted_.

“Oromë,” Celegorm whispers into the kiss, “Oromë, please…”

“Wait,” says Oromë, and, “Enough – ” and for a moment Celegorm is hit by a surge of fear.  _Don’t reject me, don’t say no, not again –_

But rather than pushing him away Oromë takes a deep, steadying breath, and says, “My car. I’m parked off campus.”

“Oh, fuck yes,” says Celegorm, and kisses him again before Oromë can tell him to wait.

-

It is not long, but also not soon enough for Celegorm, before he is bent down across the center console of Oromë’s car, tugging down the fly of Oromë’s pants. He bares his teeth in delight as he frees Oromë’s cock, actually licking his lips in anticipation. The look on his face makes Oromë catch his breath.

“Yes,” Celegorm breathes, and wraps one hand around the base of Oromë’s cock as he takes the head into his mouth.

“ _Tyelko_.” Oromë’s hand clenches spasmodically in Celegorm’s hair, and Celegorm gives an answering groan. “Oh, god.”

Celegorm responds by closing his eyes and taking Oromë deeper, his other hand finding its way down the front of his shorts. He moves his hand slowly over himself, knowing the combination of Oromë’s cock down his throat and the tight heat of his fist will be enough to have him coming if he’s not careful.

Soon he pulls back, and says roughly, “I want you to fuck me.” He sits up and wipes his mouth, his eyes bright and his hair falling into his eyes. “I’ve been wanting you to fuck me since this  _morning_ , Coach, and if I don’t have you inside me  _now_ , I swear I’m going to explode.”

“Come here, then,” says Oromë, half-laughing, and Celegorm shucks the rest of his clothes swiftly and slides across the seat. He straddles Oromë’s lap, clutching at his coach’s shoulders as Oromë reaches up to kiss him again. The cut on his lip opens, and Celegorm moans at the sting and the feel of Oromë’s tongue across it. He presses down eagerly against Oromë’s cock, and chokes at the feel of it breaching him.

“Oh,  _fuck_.”

“Easy,” murmurs Oromë, as Celegorm swears and buries his face in Oromë’s shoulder, breathing hard. “Relax. Let me open you up…”

“I want you now,” says Celegorm indistinctly, even though his body protests and pain twangs through him as he digs his fingers into Oromë’s back.

“You have me,” says Oromë, carding his fingers through Celegorm’s damp hair. “Slow it down, Tyelko. I’m not going anywhere.”

So Celegorm breathes, his face still pressed to Oromë’s neck, tongue darting out to taste skin and sweat, and the dark lines of the tattoo that curl from Oromë’s bicep to just below his ear. Oromë murmurs softly as his hand runs down Celegorm’s back -  _That’s it, relax for me, Tyelko, Tyelkormo, my wild one_  – and his other hand reaches between them, moving over Celegorm with firm, steady strokes, until Celegorm is gasping against him. All the while his large fingers press gently into him, opening him up, and soon Celegorm is impatient again, hissing, “In me, in me, in me, c’mon,” and Oromë’s breath is deep and carefully controlled.

“Are you ready?”

“I’m ready, I’m  _ready_ , give it to me.”

Celegorm cries out as Oromë pushes slowly into him, the muscles of his thighs trembling as he tries to hold himself still astride Oromë’s lap.

“I’ve got you,” says Oromë again, though his voice is thick and he’s clearly holding himself back. He wraps strong hands below Celegorm’s thighs, supporting him, and Celegorm moans as Oromë pushes deeper. “You doing okay?”

“Yes,” whispers Celegorm, his voice cracking. “God, Oromë, I want you to move…”

“Getting there.”

Soon, though not soon enough for Celegorm, Oromë settles into a rhythm, moving his hips to thrust smoothly into Celegorm, and Celegorm rocks down against him, his moans filling the car. He reaches out a hand and grips the handle over the window to support himself, his other hand gripping Oromë’s shoulder so tightly his nails draw blood. Oromë steadies him with one arm while his other hand finds Celegorm’s cock again and strokes him in rhythm with his thrusts.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Celegorm chants. “ _Harder_.”

Oromë’s head falls back against the headrest and he watches Celegorm with half-closed eyes. “You are beautiful, Tyelko.”

“Christ,” says Celegorm, and kisses him sloppily, his knees pressing tight to Oromë’s waist. He rolls his hips forward, sliding his cock into Oromë’s hand, the head of it rubbing against Oromë’s stomach, and he whines as Oromë refuses to speed up. “Stop teasing me, damn it.”

“You’re one to talk,” says Oromë, and lets his hand slide between Celegorm’s buttocks to where their bodies join. Celegorm nearly bites through his lip as he feels a finger slide into him alongside Oromë’s cock, and Oromë simultaneously runs his thumb over the head of Celegorm’s erection.

It’s too much.

“Oh fuck, Oromë, I’m so close – god, yes, right there, please, I’m going to–”

“Do it,” says Oromë, in a low growl that goes straight to the base of Celegorm’s spine, and Celegorm lets out a shout and comes, spurting over Oromë’s hand and his own stomach. As he tightens around Oromë, Oromë groans, and presses deep.

“ _Tyelko_.”

“Yes,” rasps Celegorm, clinging to him, “Yeah, Coach, go for it.” And Oromë shudders and pulses into him, his forehead coming to rest against Celegorm’s shoulder.

They are still a while, wrapped around each other, as Oromë softens between Celegorm’s thighs and Celegorm nuzzles against Oromë’s throat.

“That was perfect,” he mumbles. “Fucking perfect, you’re fucking perfect, I love it, I love – ”

“Shh,” whispers Oromë, and kisses him. He pulls out of Celegorm carefully, and Celegorm shivers, slumping against his chest.

“Let’s get cleaned up,” says Oromë at last, when Celegorm shows no sign of wanting to move.

“Mmm.”

“Don’t you want to get home? Have you even showered since the match?”

“You gotta ask?” Celegorm sits up and stretches, laughing, displaying the dirt and sweat and blood still streaking his arms and chest. “I know you like me filthy.”

Oromë winces, even as he runs a gentle hand down Celegorm’s side. “I like you all ways,” he says softly. “Even when you aren’t running hot after a win.”

“I always run hot.” Celegorm gives a cocky grin and flexes an arm. “But yeah, I guess I should head home before going out with the guys. Unless,” he brushes his thumb against Oromë’s lips, “you just want to take me home with you?”

“I can’t,” says Oromë, and Celegorm sighs. “You know it’s too risky, Tyelko, you know I shouldn’t be – ”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Celegorm, and pulls himself free. He retrieves his clothes and wriggles into them. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, is already sore, but he treasures the ache, holds it like a promise. “Can you just drop me at the end of my street?”

“Of course,” says Oromë, tugging up his own pants and buttoning his fly. “And Tyelko, I – ”

“It’s fine,” says Celegorm, putting his feet up on the dashboard and staring out the window. “Just drive, Coach.”


End file.
